


Evocations

by thelensfocuses



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelensfocuses/pseuds/thelensfocuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Sherlock is the essence of London. John’s just a man, but Sherlock falls for him anyway, and this is how that happens. </p><p>Prompt by something-brave for johnlockchallenges' gift exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evocations

 

 

 

 

_Let us go in a boat on the ocean_

_To pass the night among the stars._

_See, the breeze is just blowing enough_

_To swell the cloth of the sails._

_The old Italian fisherman_

_And his two sons, who guide us,_

_Hear but do not understand_

_The words that we speak to each other._

_On the ocean calm and somber, see,_

_We can exchange our souls,_

_And no one will understand our voices,_

_But the night, the sky and the waves._

_\-       Chausson (translated from original French)_

****

\---

_Rain, rain, go away, come again another day…_

The children are singing in the courtyard once again; their little, tiny feet in hand-me-down shoes splashing in the accumulating puddles amongst the cobblestone streets. Laughter echoes against the buildings nearby, their bricks bouncing off the children’s merriment. Above, the rain continues to fall- light enough sheets that it’s still worth venturing outside with an umbrella if you so chose to.  Parents watch from windows; the spectators to the rain dance. All wait for sun.

_(He knows. He knows that sun probably won’t come for a long, long time. He wishes that he could tell the parents to invest in proper wellies. He cannot interfere.)_

Across town, a man waits to catch a train. His face is shrouded by the hat that he wears to protect it from the drizzle; his overcoat large and imposing, covering a rather rotund figure underneath. He looks up towards the sky, squinting against the droplets. In his hand he holds a watch and he looks down to study the engraving on it, running his thumb over it as he has done hundreds of times. He sighs, pocketing it once more, and steps onto the train, shaking off his umbrella from the droplets as he does so.

_(He will never have the courage to talk to her again. They broke it off; it was simpler to stay alone, what with her job and his gambling problems. He stares at a picture of her for 3 minutes, 26 seconds (approximately) every day before he goes to sleep. He’s never loved her more._

_He wishes he could tell him that he knows she feels the same. He cannot interfere.)_

One lone figure, however, isn’t paying any attention to the rainfall at all. In turn, no one pays any attention to him. He is a loner- a loner in this hodge-podge group of people, hiding behind a normality of jumpers, jeans and beige. No one cares to look deeper- to notice the creases on his face that aren’t caused by age, to notice the limp that acts like a Schrödinger’s cat. Does he care less about seeing the sun? Is that the reasoning behind it? No; he still glances to the window from time to time, as if he should expect to see it change. Or, perhaps, to quantify that it won’t change at all.

_Little Johnny wants to play, rain, rain, go away…_

This man, above all the others he can see with the edges of his sight, catches his attention; this enigma, this paradox, wrapped in an unassuming parcel. A frown flickers across his face. What has made the man that he can visualize today? He flicks through his memories like one would a handful of photographs, glancing briefly at key points. A doctor; received his credentials from St. Bart’s _(his mother was there- his father had died from liver poisoning the year before. The man had wanted nothing more than for him to make it to the ceremony so that he’d be finally proud of him. His sister was absent, the man remembered bitterly. She came back to their shared flat when night was merging into day and promptly passed out. She didn’t understand why he moved out three days later)_. An army doctor, even. Served in Afghanistan _(Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He took the award with a tight-lipped smile; progress in the army was easy, but he didn’t want to be in charge. All deaths would be held responsible to him. He tried not to think about it at the ceremony)_. Shot in the chest, right above the heart. The infection was what made them send him home; made them wonder if he would even survive the night.

He peruses deeper, searching for one piece of information in particular, knitting his eyebrows as he does so. 

The thoughts of suicide running through his head- of using the gun _(a Browning that he’d managed to stow away in his bags; no one bothered to check the bags of a terminally ill soldier fallen in action)_ and pressing it to his head, splattering ruddy red against the warm beige—it’s too much. He has to pull away from it; pull away before he becomes lost in it. His translucent eyes open, taking in the sight of the ceiling of his flat as he fights to control his breathing. He’s delved far too deeply again, searching for the one piece of information he yearns for the most.

A name.

“Who are you, mysterious man?” he murmurs. Outside the rain seems to pause, as if waiting for his bad mood to fall once again.

When it doesn’t, they finally allow themselves to clear. All around London people close their umbrellas.

 

\---

 

By the time they meet Sherlock has already put any thoughts of the man in the back of his mind. He has other things that he has to think about; cases that require his attention, leads he needs to follow, experiments he needs to do. With over eight million people demanding his attention the moment he lets his guard down it’s hard to do anything but be busy in order to block it all out.

They enter as he’s busy adjusting the fine adjustment knob on his microscope, squinting to see the results of his newest experiment. He firstly ignores the voices, finding them to be tedious to his method of concentration- but then he recalls about how he had mentioned to Mike Stamford _(a ‘friend’ of his, if he could even call him that; he has a wife and a child on the way but he doesn’t know it yet. She’ll tell him later in the week but her nail-biting will be futile; the child is his)_ that he was in need of a flatmate. A potential, then?

He looks up, only to be faced with the same mysterious man as before.

_Oh._

His eyes widen imperceptibly. The other man doesn’t seem to notice in the slightest. If anything, he seems to be lost in concentrating on him; gauging whether he could possibly be the man that he’s looking for in a flatmate. Probably not, he thinks bitterly. He’s never anyone’s first choice.

The other man- still nameless, much to Sherlock’s chagrin- shifts, his hand tightening on his cane. Waiting for him to say something, no doubt. An introduction, perhaps? Maybe, but he never settles for the cliche. Better to impress the man, no doubt. Start with a question that seems harmless, leading him into a whole string of impressive ‘deductions’. Impress him so that he will never think of leaving him.

He opens his mouth and gets ready to begin, feeling like the conductor a very long, elaborate song.

“...Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

\---

 

His name, he learns upon further discussion, is John. Doctor John Watson, ex-army doctor of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He has a sister named Harry who he wasn’t close to _(and when Sherlock told him that after making a string of deductions, ones that he didn’t actually see but already knew from going back to his mental resources he purposefully said ‘brother’, testing to see whether the man was actually listening to him. He was.)_ and lives alone on army pension in a small flat that reeks of cabbage.

John is perfect. Everything that he could ever ask for.

His laugh soothes the voices in his head- babies crying as they are born into the world, families sobbing as loved ones leave them (and in more than one case, the silence as they die alone without anyone to love them), and all of the voices in between. His humour is quirky, his energy infectious, and he has a knack for enjoying danger as much as he does. He treats Sherlock like no one else has in this life- with an affection that he hadn’t realized he was missing.

It would almost be too good to be true if he knew that he was really, _really_ real.

And when John saves him from taking the pill, saves him with a crack shot at the last moment, and still manages to laugh his way to Chinese food afterwards, eyes bright and psychosomatic limp gone, he knows that he’s lost in a completely different way than when he delves too far into the minds of others.

 

\---

  
  
It’s during their third case that Sherlock feels compelled to say something, anything to let John know exactly how he feels about him. How every moment makes his heart leap in his chest, pushing him to want more. How he wishes more than anything else in the world that he could just scoop him up in his arms and carry him away, far away from here so that no other person could ever bother him, both in his mind and in the outside world ( _though he knows he’s incapable of leaving the country. He’d wither away if he tried_ ). How every moment with him is the reason that it’s been so sunny in London recently.

“Sherlock? What do you think of this?” he calls, holding up the wrist of the dead victim.

The marks on her skin are obvious; there was a struggle of some sort. Delving quickly into his mind he can pull up all of the information that he needs. The killer was five foot nine ( _five foot eleven in those red heels_ ) and very, very strong; too strong for a woman to be, realistically. The wrong body shape, as well. She was a woman that the victim had picked up at a gay bar only to find that it had been some sort of con in order to steal her money. When the tussle had turned ugly ( _it always happens when people are that desperate for drug money as he was- so desperate for the rush of meth in his veins_ ) she was stabbed with one of her own kitchen knives.

Case closed.

He opens his mouth to say just that, along with the rest of the so-called ‘deductions’, but John’s smile, so radiant and reassuring, throws him off guard entirely. The sound he ends up making sounds partway between a squeak and a whine, causing more than one of the members of the Yard to laugh at him.

By the time that he turns back, having given them all scathing looks and snappish comments in self defense, John’s smile has shifted into from admiration into worry.

“Oi, Sherlock. Are you alright?” he asks; quieter this time. He has become Doctor John Watson, MD; not John, the man he loves more than anything else but is too afraid to admit it. The moment is lost.

Shaking his head, he responds, “Of course I’m alright.” Then he’s off again, stringing out his deductions for all of the Yard to hear. They make it home relatively earlier than he had expected them too, not having the energy to keep up the dramatics.

Clouds appear in the otherwise clear night, blocking out the moon. It doesn’t take long for droplets to start to fall, washing away the blood from the crime scene. The earth cleansing itself.

He locks himself in his room the moment he gets home, ignoring John’s voice as a chorus of groans and sighs over the falling rain starts up in his head. It’s enough that he only just saves himself from punching the wall, wanting nothing more than for everyone to just shut up about it.

  
\---

 

When Mycroft finds out- and it was only a matter of time before he did, the cheeky bugger- the response from him is sharp and rebuking, even before Sherlock can utter a word. “No. You can’t have him. That’s final, Sherlock,” he states firmly, his jaw closing with an audible snap. Sherlock fights to keep himself calm but the clouds are already beginning to form outside of one of the ridiculous stained-glass windows of Mycroft’s club. He doesn’t say a word in defense for himself, keeping his eyes fixed on the small pile of wood in the fireplace.

“I won’t allow you to use him to your advantage. He’s only human; he’ll only get hurt. He’s stuck in the path of the gods- gods who only have so much time in their bodies before they move on. You’ve got no more than three months, if that, before you have to change forms again.” He reminds Sherlock of it every time they meet like this; of how, as the physical manifestation of London, he has certain duties and obligations that he has to continue to do. There’s no chance of evading those responsibilities in any way.   

In the back of his mind, Sherlock wonders if he just reminds him of it so that he can rub in how much longer he gets to stay in each of his incarnations. As the essence of Great Britain, his obligations require him to be present in each form for much, much longer- years, even. That’s how it had been for as long as Sherlock could ever remember it.

The fire wheezes pitifully in the hearth, burning through the last of its crucial remains. Neither of them bothers to get up and fix it. Through it all, Sherlock remains silent, but finally, finally meets his brother’s eyes.

It’s then that Mycroft pauses, perhaps noting for the first time just how quiet he was being- or more specifically, the absence of their normal bickering.

“Oh.” He pauses, looking into his translucent eyes. “Oh, _Sherlock_.”

Pity. Sherlock turns away from it as if it burned him, not wanting to hear more.

“You’d be ridiculous if you ever thought that it would be sensible, Sherlock. He’ll never understand--”

“You’re right. He might never understand.” He stops, swallows. “But that doesn’t mean that I still can’t try.”

Mycroft is silent at that, but the pity in his eyes is still there. It’s stifling; too stifling for him to handle.

Getting up without another word, Sherlock leaves the room without bothering to say goodbye. The last of the flames in the fire flicker out without any fuel left to feed them.

  
\---

 

The feeling in his stomach as he returns home that evening is infused with anger, frustration and humiliation, brewing together to create a sensation not unlike the taste of sour milk on the back of his tongue. To say in the least, it isn’t pleasant.

“Back so early? I thought you said you were going out for dinner with Mycroft,” John calls from the kitchen as he hears the door open and close, seeming genuinely surprised that he was back when he is. He’s stirring a substance in a pot with a wooden spoon- beans, by the smell of it- and looking over his shoulder, waiting for Sherlock to appear around the corner.

“He had... other arrangements to attend to,” is all he said in explanation, throwing his coat on the back of the hook on the door. He contemplates storming into his room and holing himself away, losing himself to the voices in his head, but feels that it’ll end up doing more harm than good. John will no doubt worry, which will lead to questions, which will mean having to explain everything.

Try as he might, he’s just not ready to do that. They still have almost three months as friends. He’s not going to ruin it now.

“Oh. Well, I was just going to have dinner... Should I order takeaway, then?” Ah, good old John. Always looking out for him. Doctor John.

“Tea’s fine.” He flops down onto the couch, curling up on his side. John hesitates, reading his mood. He’s always good at doing that- knowing how to react to a situation, just on the attitude of all those there. He supposes it’s yet another reason why he’s able to put up with Sherlock for so long without pulling all of his hair out.

The voices in his head come back with a vengeance, muttering seemingly everything they could that was negative about London all at once. The weather was too hot; the weather was too cold. The tube was too packed. The grocers didn’t carry enough products for their liking. Why wasn’t there more varieties of tea at Tesco’s? Why couldn’t there be more bank holidays? Less bank holidays? He seriously had to fight the compulsion to run to the window, open the sash, and tell the whole street to just shut up.

It wouldn’t make any difference, anyways.

He grabs a book to use as a distraction-   _Bees, Beekeepers, and The Study of Apiology_ , fascinating and scintillating topic- flipping through to the page he left off. Page thirty-two, second paragraph in. In the back of his mind he can hear John making tea- the sound of the kettle having finished boiling, the hot water pouring into the teacups, the clang of the milk jug as it’s placed back in the fridge.

“John?” he asks, staring down at line upon line of tiny print, crammed and packed together like sardines. He wonders if those words too could move like the patterns of movement they were describing in vivid and clear detail. Like the buzzing, shifting patterns of bees.

John hums in response, still working on preparing the last bit of the tea for their ‘dinner’. In a good mood, then. Slightly tired, but that’s definitely expected; especially with the sick season upon the hospital.

“What is the point of falling in love?” He keeps his eyes focused on the words the whole time he speaks, not looking up- those buzzing bees of the English literature.

“Come again?” he asks, as if unsure that Sherlock asked a valid question at all. Interesting. Doesn’t happen as much anymore. It’s been almost a month since they’ve been living together, after all. John knows by now how much it bothers him to repeat himself.

“Love. Why bother? It seems highly illogical- just a whole lot of wasted effort. Especially with the impending chance of it never working out.”

His flatmate takes a minute to think of his answer as he walks into the living room, as if whatever he said was something that never really occurred to him. Placing the tea down onto the coffee table and taking a seat next to him, he frowns.

“It’s because…” John stops for a moment, answering honestly. He’s always admired that about him. That characteristic bluntness. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. “'Cause sometimes, love is stronger than anything. It’s… How does the old saying go? ‘Love triumphs over all?’ And sometimes, you just can’t help but fall into it. It’s too strong to avoid. Kind of like a black hole.”

“And how does one know when one has caught it, so to speak?”

“You make it sound like a bloody disease or something!” He laughs, looking up towards where Sherlock is still holding the book like a makeshift shield. “It’s hard to say, Sherlock. You just… Know. It sort of just clicks into place, and all of a sudden you realize why you were so confused, or so frustrated over little things. It builds to the point where you just can’t imagine anything without it, and you don’t know what you’d do without that person.”

Without waiting for Sherlock to say anything, John removes the book from his hand, replacing it with a cup of tea. One milk, three sugars. He never forgets, not since the first time he figured it out. He can feel his heart beating faster in his chest at the small motion.

“Sounds terribly dull.” He fights to keep his voice level.

“I can guarantee you, it’s anything but. It’s an adventure all on its own.”

His eyes meet Sherlock’s for a moment, a tentative smile playing on his lips. Sherlock blinked in response, his grip on the tea in his hand tightening. Is he suggesting what he thinks he’s suggesting? Keeping his eyes fixed on John’s, Sherlock moves to set his cup of tea down on the table, having not even taken a sip.

The same feeling as when they were on that third case bubbles up inside of him, threatening to spill out. It’s enough to embolden him to lean forward, quick as a whip, and capture John’s lips with his own before he could think about it in more detail.

It’s a terrible first kiss, with far too much teeth and nose and not enough lips, but it’s enough to get the point across so that John can make everything right, just like he always does.

For a couple arduously long seconds, nothing happens. Sherlock is starting to question just what he’s gotten himself into. Hell, he’d hardly thought about whether or not John would even reciprocate his feelings. Freezing, he starts to back away from John, the apology already on his lips--

But then John pulls him back once again, pressing them close together in a true, proper kiss (just like he knew he would if he did), all warmth and love and the faint aftertaste of tea, and he practically feels himself melting inside. Following John’s movements with ease he wraps his arms desperately around his shoulders, keeping him close.

He hears a small whimper as John sucks on his lower lip, pressing his tongue against his heatedly, and it takes a few moments for him to register that it was him that had made the sound.

By then John has already moved him so that he’s lying down on top of him on the couch, their legs intertwined. He feels dazed, as if he was lagging a couple seconds behind what was actually happening, but the feeling of John’s warm body against his, inhaling each other’s warm breaths, brought everything back to the present with an alarming rate.

“God, Sherlock,” John pants, sucking and nipping at Sherlock’s jaw. That proves to drive another sound out of him- this one far needy, more desperate. He grips to John’s back tightly, holding him near. Afraid he would leave the moment that he let him.

John chuckles quietly, but it’s distracted. There’s other things that offer his time in a completely different, far more fulfilling way. His eyes, pupils blown ( _and God, it was nothing like he could have ever imagined it to be in reality- how he had yearned for him to look at him that way. Every love poem in the world didn’t prepare him for the feeling_ ), searches Sherlock’s face for something; but what?

It dawns on him. Approval. Not even bothering to nod, Sherlock moves quickly forward again, letting his intentions be known. It’s enough to drag a moan out of John himself, and soon they’re nothing more than a mess of limbs, striving to become one.

 

\---

 

“What’s got you in such a mood, hmm?” John teases, kissing his cheek, his lips still red and slightly swollen. Their tea is long-forgotten on the coffee table. John’s managed to throw on Sherlock’s robe; Sherlock, John’s jumper. Sherlock finds that he could really care less.

“Oh, nothing.” His smile turns into a truly lopsided grin as he moves closer into his warmth, relaxing at the sound of his doctor’s heartbeat. The citizens of London are blissfully silent in his head. He still has that feeling of being a conductor, just like when they first met, but now it’s the most beautiful second movement that he’s ever heard, sweet and heartwarming.

They meet once again, lips to lips; the lonely man and the lonely city.

For once he feels completely, truly whole.

  
\---

 

Two months pass in the blink of an eye. London has never looked more beautiful; the streets are clean, the crime is low, the weather is lovely. Spring has arrived early in the city, with blossoms and buds to match. While spring is normally Sherlock’s least favourite season, he finds himself enjoying it more and more with each passing day.  
They hold hands as they walk together in the park, shoulder to shoulder. One combined whole against the rest of the world. Sherlock has his characteristic black coat on once again, adequate for the warmer weather; John, his normal jumper-and-jean combination. All is well in its own little way.

On a whim, John suggests that they purchase a bag of bread crumbs in order to feed the birds in the park bench. Sherlock complains, murmuring how it will make them seem much older than they are ( _“but in your case, John, it may perfectly represent your continuing advancements in age.” He got a friendly whap on the shoulder at that_ ), but in five minute’s time he finds himself sulking on the bench, watching as John happily fed bird after bird with crumbs.

He’s dragged out of his train of thought as John nudges him, kissing the shell of his ear. “Why don’t you give it a go, eh?” he asks, placing a handful of the crumbs in his own hand. John laughs, unable to help himself as he kisses down Sherlock’s jawline, giving him shivers all the way down his spine.

“Fine, fine. But only if you stop being so cruel to me,” he teases, sprinkling the handful of the crumbs onto the ground. Chuckling, John reaches for Sherlock’s cheek with his gloved hand, glad to give him a long and heated kiss. By the time they pull apart, however many moments later it has been, Sherlock’s slightly panting, wishing there weren’t such things as public indecency laws.

Of course, that’s when he notices the birds; or more specifically, the lack of them. He blinks- had something happened to scare them off? It’s probable. But then he looks down at his feet and notices the breadcrumbs that he could have sworn he’d scattered collected at his feet in a neat pile when it dawns on him what happened. The birds, having recognized who he was, thought it better to give him the food than to eat it themselves. It wouldn’t have been the first time that it had happened, for sure- but the first time in this form, yes.

“What’s this, then?” John says, seeming confused about the pile just as much as he was. Sherlock quickly scatters the crumbs with his foot, spreading them evenly onto the pavement. “I suppose you swept me away so much that I hadn’t noticed I had just dropped the crumbs,” he says as a poorly hidden excuse, kissing John’s cheek.

He can see in his eyes that John’s sceptical about it all but doesn’t argue, having no other reason to believe he’s wrong. Regardless, he kisses back despite the pang of guilt that hits his heart as he holds John close to him.

They’re running out of time.

\---

  
  
You can stop calling me. I know how much time I have left. -SH

And yet you haven’t acted on it. Two weeks isn’t a long period of time, dear brother. -MH

And you think I’m not aware of that? I know. -SH

You should tell him. -MH

[No response]

I do mean it, Sherlock. To keep him in the dark is highly unfair, especially after all he’s been through with you. -MH

I don’t care. -SH

Yes, you do. Tell him. -MH

[No response]

If you don’t by the end of the week, I will be forced to tell him myself. However, I do have a feeling that he’d rather hear it from you. -MH

Fine. Now bugger off. -SH

Take my words wisely, Sherlock. It’s better in the long run that he knows. -MH

  
\---

  
Courage. That’s the word that runs through his mind as he strokes John’s hair back, feeling the short blonde hairs running softly through his fingertips. John smiles, his eyes still shut, curling closer to Sherlock’s naked side under the comforter of his bed. He is a beautiful light in the otherwise dreary room, happily resting between the sheets as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. At least, one that he knows about.

He runs his foot against the side of John’s; their unspoken agreement when they need to get each other’s attention. With a sleepy, shuffling sigh _(and if Sherlock didn’t have anything to say that was eating him up inside he probably would have chuckled, held him closer, kissed him until he couldn’t remember his own name or any of the names he’d had before)_ he opens his beautiful blue eyes, blinking slowly. “What’s it?” he slurs, coming out of his nap. Sherlock breathes sharply at that, knowing it was now or never.

“I have to tell you something.” That grabs John’s attention more than anything. He straightens up, looking all the world like he was was preparing to hear bad news. They can’t be together any more, perhaps. It wasn’t going to work out. It wasn’t his fault.

The detective wishes he could take his words back the moment he saw the look in John's eyes- wishes with his entire heart and soul- but knows that he must. He must, for John’s sake.

Why is it that changes must hurt in such a raw, bleeding way?

A shaky breath. Inhale, exhale. Calm breathing. He needs to be calm when he explains this to John, just like how John is calm when he explains things to Sherlock.

“I... haven’t been completely honest to you, and I have to apologize for that.” A terrible start. He winces, unable to meet John’s eyes. Damn. Now he probably thinks he’s cheating on him with someone else when he’s not looking.

Calm. Try again.

“What I mean to say is... it’s not, perhaps, what you think. You must understand that it’s not a problem that one would normally have to face. I suppose that I’m considerably lucky.” He chuckles bitterly at that. “Or considerably unlucky, depending on what you believe.” Another pause. “I must have your complete confidentiality and trust in what I tell you. It’s not a practical joke, nor is it something that can be changed. I need you to trust me.”

He looks to John as he says that, watching him carefully. While dubious, the man seems overall considerate; he has a good understanding of when the situation is one that is more serious than he could ever possibly imagine. With an uneasy, uncertain smile, John slowly nods. “I trust you,” he whispers, so quietly that Sherlock almost didn’t hear it at all.

It’s enough to break the dam inside of him holding back his words, giving him full freedom to discuss what he’s kept hidden for so long.

Sherlock explains everything to them, lying there in the sanctuary of their bed. About his role as the essence, or ‘spirit’ of London. About how, when his moods were overall better, the weather and seasons improved; hence why there was a warmer spring than usual and far, far less rain. How he’s not allowed to leave the country without possibly fading away into nothing, leaving London to ruins. How he’s been alive for many, many centuries, all in different forms.

It gets more difficult as he goes along, explaining deeper and deeper concepts. How the pigeons in the park placed the crumbs by his feet, recognizing who, or what, he was. He clears his throat, biting his lip. Without having to think about it, John carefully weaves his fingers with Sherlock’s, holding them against the steady pulse of his heart. The security of him choosing to stay is what gets him through the next hurdle.

“Animals,” he explains, “understand what I am and what I do- so when it comes time to needing to change my form- that is, to become a new species as is required in my duties once every 20 or so years- I’m able to create a new body for me to live in and not be judged for it. Humans, however, are far more complicated. Creating a person to appear out of thin air arouses suspicion; bit not good, as you would say. I... search for a person who has recently passed away- preferably young- and take on their body after their soul leaves it, as long as the death was plausible enough for me to be brought into it. I take on their bodies and develop them. Mycroft does it as well- he’s the essence of Great Britain- but it’s normally very uncommon for us to end up as brothers. Sometimes we don’t see each other for many years, simply because we’re people destined not to meet.”  

Throughout the explanation John had remained relatively quiet, simply listening to him speak. Now, however, he speaks up. “What about you, then? You said twenty years. How long do you have left?” His voice is quiet, almost afraid.

Meeting his eyes, he speaks what has to be the eight hardest words for him to ever have to say. “A little less than two weeks. I’m sorry.”

John nods, taking the information in. Two weeks together before Sherlock is forced to leave. Then he turns, kissing Sherlock forcefully, gripping his dark hair tightly in his hand.

Sherlock knows better than to point out the salty taste of tears on his lips and cheeks when he kisses them.

 

\---

  
  
They spend their final days in relative peace, even with the approaching deadline looming above the two of them. At least, Sherlock does; John’s attitudes vary like the changing tide depending on how the day was. Most days he was relatively neutrally content, glad to be spending every moment he could with the man, but otherwise their schedule didn’t change.

A couple of nights, when John thought that Sherlock had gone out for one thing or another, he comes home to find John sobbing so forcefully in the bathroom that not a sound comes out- just silent, shaking anguish in every muscle and bone in his body. He quietly leaves the flat for a bit more time, giving John the time he needs to compose.

On one of those trouble nights John fucks him hard against the kitchen table until he was a panting, needy mess, giving him bruises that he feels for three days afterwards. All throughout it all John desperately moans his name, seeming to want to take every part of him in him and keep him there.

They both come to a silent conclusion that the moment wouldn’t ever be discussed again.

Fleeting and melancholy, the end of the last movement is coming to a close. Sherlock wishes that it could hold on forever.

 

\---

 

They spend their last day together relatively simply. Nothing extravagant, nothing overly sentimental. In fact, it feels like every other day they had spent together- close and caring, but never in each other’s way. Sherlock works on completing the last of his projects and experiments, giving information for any that require a little bit more time to complete. John reads the paper, types in his blog, and generally keeps quiet, embracing the silence they can be in and still be close.

With each hour that slips by they look up at the clock in sync. Each time, John looks towards Sherlock, the silent question written on his face: _‘Now?’_

Each time, Sherlock shakes his head.

They resume their day.

As the clock strikes seven, signalling the start of dusk, John once again looks at Sherlock. This time, however, Sherlock doesn’t shake his head back; instead, he moves down to lie on the couch, looking up towards the ceiling once again.

A complete circle, from the first time he saw John to the inevitable last. Counting the cracks in the ceiling in order to relax himself so that he can face what happens next.

Going through his mental checklist, Sherlock prepares himself for moving on.

Firstly, instructions. John is a man of plans; he requires orders. “When I die, call Mycroft. He’ll come collect the body. None will ever be the wiser about my death. When Lestrade calls- or anyone in the Yard, for that matter, simply tell them that I’ve gone on an extended vacation.” He pauses, catching his breath. The life is fading from him.  “...You don’t know where. In about six months they’ll receive notice that I... passed away in a crime ring in Tibet. You know that I didn’t. Once again, none will be the wiser.” He exhales shakily, feeling John’s hands in his. John, in turn, nods his head.

After that... well, he hasn’t really thought about after that. He knows that he only has moments before his life begins to fade away- he can feel it, right in the deep core of his bones. His soul is fighting his body, fighting to escape and become something new. What, he isn’t sure; but whatever it was, he won’t know until he gets there.

John, however, seems to have in mind what he wants, what he needs. He shifts so that he’s lying next to Sherlock on the couch, wrapping his arms tightly around his middle. His head perfectly rests on his shoulder, keeping him close. He doesn’t fight him; doesn’t have the energy to.

“Will I get to see you again? After you’ve changed?” he whispers against his ear. He can feel his fingers trembling where they’re linked over his stomach.

He pauses, trying to turn his head to face John’s, but finding the motion becoming more and more impossible. “I promise you, my John. I’ll find you. You’ll know me when you see me.”

“How will I know?” John insists. As if it was happening to another person, Sherlock could feel the tears wetting his shoulder. “Sherlock! How will I know?” He shakes him gently, trying to get him to respond.

Smiling faintly, Sherlock shuts his eyes. “I promise,” he whispers.

The baton is raised for the last time. The song ends.

 

\---

 

The children are singing in the courtyard once again; tiny feet in hand-me-down shoes playing hopscotch against the dusty cobblestone streets. The sun shines down on their hair as their laughter echoes against the buildings nearby. Their parents talk amongst themselves in the shade, offering lemonade and kisses for scraped knees.

Across town, a man and a woman have reconciled. He holds her hands tightly in his, the watch clasped in between them. He explains how he kept it with him all of this time, running his thumb over it as he has done hundreds of times. She smiles and laughs, tears in the corner of her eyes, just as she leans in to kiss his cheek. It’s not perfect- not yet. It’s too young, too fragile for that; but they’ve never loved each other more.

One lone man stands by an open window, looking out towards the sun. In turn, no one pays attention to him- but he doesn’t mind. His smile is radiant in the warm summer weather- one of the hottest on records, he’d heard the BBC announce earlier that day- and he breathes deeply, still swathed in the warmth of jumpers, jeans and beige. Below him, cars merrily move about their way through the city, lost in their journey to get from point A to point B. He pities them, wishes that they could enjoy the same happiness he finds in London as he does. London, his city.

A bird flies up to the window, using the window ledge as a perch. His wings are shimmery and black, immaculate with the rest of his dark feathers. A raven. The bird turns his beady eyes towards him, seeming to take him in. John does the same, staring into those eyes as if they would somehow unlock some secret of the universe. The bird seems put off by that- and if a bird could ever scowl, this bird manages to do it. John can’t help but laugh, even as the bird flies away into the sunny London sky.

“Goodbye, Sherlock. I love you,” he calls loudly out the window, not caring at all when people around him give him odd looks. The bird caws back but doesn’t turn around.

He keeps laughing until the raven disappears from sight.


End file.
